The horn that signaled assembly was not the usual sharp, clipped tone meant to rouse tired recruits. This one rolled across the east quarters of Outpost Vester like a declaration, resonant enough to vibrate in bone and blood. Bright jerked awake in the infirmary cot he'd stolen for the night, heart thumping against bruised ribs. For a moment he thought it was another crawler alarm.

Then he heard the voices outside—neither frantic nor terrified.

Just… budding excitement, and that strange, hollow hunger for the Trials they might very well die in.

Atheon must have called for the meeting.

Bright swung his legs over the cot, wincing at the ache running through every joint. The healers, if he could really call them that, had done what they could, but the march, the fight, the losses — those things clung to him heavier than wounds. He grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the morning light.

The eastern arena of the outpost was already filling. Canvas canopies were being erected. Merchants, gamblers, and nobles' servants swarmed like ants setting a feast for greater predators. The Outpost Vester insignia — three interlocked rings — hung from every beam.

It felt less like a military ground and more like a festival built on bones.

Atheon stood at a raised platform, already flanked by the his trusty elites.

High -Tier initiates, each one. Radiating controlled power like banked furnaces.

Atheon looked the part among them—a considerably young captain compared to some of the old monsters from the frontier, but still a real contender in this game. He had cleaned himself up, armor polished, stance straightened. The ordeal in the woods had carved a new perspective into him, just as surely as his intimate time with Maren had.

Bright forced himself forward through the crowd.

A voice cut through the noise. A servant's of house Aurin.

"Form ranks! We begin the Trials briefing immediately. This year's games are fully funded by the esteemed House Aurin, may their coffers remain deep."

So that was the sponsoring house. Aurin — one of the richest in the republic. No wonder Vester had been transformed into a noble's playground.

Atheon cleared his throat. "Before we begin—"

Aurin steward stepped up to the platform, scroll in hand. Slim, elegant, wearing blue-lapis silk. He looked wildly out of place among mud-stained fighters.

He unrolled the scroll with ceremony, as he gestured for the servant to make way.

"By decree of Lord Helmin Aurin, House Aurin recognizes the efforts of the Vester outpost during the recent Shroud surge. In recognition, he opens this year's Trials to all new entrants. This includes—"

His gaze slid to Atheon.

"—Captain Atheon, newly arrived from the frontier with his own crew."

A ripple went through some of vester's original soldiers spectating. Excitement for the coming battles and fear of the battles to come.

The steward continued:

"As per tradition, participants must form squads of six to eight members. Squads will compete in a series of tasks and arena matches designed to assess tactical creativity, magical control, physical prowess, and survival skill. Nobles of the republic may bet, sponsor, or challenge any squad."

Bright's stomach knotted.

This was no longer about survival.

This was politics.

Lethal politics.

The steward's lips curled. "Aurin is generous. Cores. Gold. Land stakes. Technique scrolls. Even admission tokens to the capital's academies."

The crowd erupted.

Land stakes alone were enough to make men kill.

Technique scrolls? Enough to make men betray.

And academy tokens…

Even Bright felt his pulse spike. Those could change entire lives.

Atheon folded his arms. "And what's the catch?"

The steward smiled. "Do well, and House Aurin rewards you. Do poorly, and your failures are… very public."

Most people In the crowd exchanged knowing glances.

Atheon didn't flinch. "Understood."

…

Once the steward stepped back, First lieutenant Maren addressed the assembled soldiers.

"All squads are responsible for their own recruitment. All initiates and fledglings are eligible unless incapacitated."

Bright turned to his left asking the question burning him inside.

"Adam…Hailen. What about Hailen?"

Adam grimaced. "He survived. Barely. He's in a deep coma. We don't know when — or if — he'll wake."

Bright swallowed hard, eyes burning. Hailen hadn't been the closest to him, but he'd been his first teacher. They'd marched together, fought together, bled together. Losing him like this felt wrong—unfinished.

Adam ever the calculating sly put a hand on Bright's shoulder without a word.

Duncan nodded solemnly from a distance.

…

The on-site organizers pulled Atheon aside immediately after the crowd dispersed.

Bright, Silas, and Adam watched from afar.

Maren — First Lieutenant Maren, the elite soldier from Vester with the glacier-blue eyes — joined them. She spoke quietly with Atheon, an undercurrent of familiarity between them. Trust. Respect. Something warmer too.

Bright raised a brow. "They really do know each other well?"

Adam shook his head, reading some subtle signs between them"Not before today. But sometimes you meet someone whose rhythm matches yours."

Duncan snorted. "Or they're flirting."

Bright elbowed him.

Adam said nothing. He only observed the subtle way Atheon eased around Maren, pieces of his armor slipping away—a foolish choice in hostile territory.

The organizers explained the trials in more detail . Arena rules. Safety wards. Medic placements. Betting structures. Team rankings. Tactical restrictions.

Atheon listened sharply.

When the meeting finally ended, Maren lingered behind. A quiet conversation passed between them — low, warm and sincere. At one point their hands brushed. At one point Atheon smiled in a way Adam had never seen.

They parted with a quiet understanding, stepping back from each other only when others neared.

No explicit details were needed; the connection was enough.

…

The outpost became chaos.

Fledglings rushed to experienced fighters. Veterans poached promising initiates. Some recruits tried to bribe their way in with promises of future treasure splits.

Bright gathered his team. Speaking with Adam was the obvious first step. The fledgling was already primed for initiation—a must-have despite his low combat power. Compared to other fledglings, Adam was a walking jack-of-all-trades, his intelligence and tactical mind outstripping most full soldiers.

Duncan was a given. He was one of the few people in the entire outpost Bright could turn his back to without a flicker of doubt. Not that he often needed to—spatial foresight made blind spots more of a suggestion than a reality—but the sentiment still counted. Loyalty mattered. Trust mattered even more.

And Duncan was trust made flesh.

With his armor on, the man was built like a walking bulwark—broad-shouldered, immovable, a fortress that advanced rather than waited. His defensive talent meshed perfectly with Bright's strategic demands, and when battle broke into chaos, Duncan's presence alone shifted the tide. A solid wall against the Shroud's horrors. A hammer when he needed to be. A shield when others couldn't.

A great addition for defense and close-quarters combat. A necessity, really.

Bright didn't even have to ask. Duncan simply stepped into position at his side, as if they were picking up a conversation paused only seconds ago.

Baggen was Bright's third choice. The man wasn't one to chase promotions or glory, but in battle, he was indispensable. He accepted Bright's offer without hesitation, instantly becoming the team's strongest power at mid-initiate level. Beyond raw strength, his crowd-control abilities made him a force multiplier—able to bend the flow of combat in ways few could.

"Alright," Bright said. " We need at least one more."

"Two more," Duncan reminded. "They said at least six."

Baggen crossed his arms. "We need someone fast. Or ranged."

"Estovia?" Bright suggested.

"Already taken," Baggen replied bitterly. "Warrant Officer Shin poached her before she even stepped onto the sand."

Bright's jaw tightened. He had wanted Estovia. Her fire was precise, lethal and disciplined.

"What about the guy from your squad, Rolf?" Duncan asked. "He can handle ranged attacks."

Bright considered it… until he remembered how flimsy Rolf's skills were.

"…Maybe not Rolf," Adam whispered as he read bright's facial expressions.

Duncan shrugged. "He's got heart. I should know…we fought together against the crawlers."

Bright sighed. "We'll keep him as a last resort."

…

"Bright!"

They turned as Bessia jogged over.

Bright felt relief — she had been one of their own since the march. Reliable.

"Good," Duncan said. "You're with—"

"No, I'm not."

Duncan blinked. "Come again?"

"Tyven already claimed us," Bessia said. "Me, Silas and some others. We're joining his squad."

Duncan avoided Bright's eyes.

Adam expression twisted. "Wow missy, you didn't even—"

Bessia raised a hand. "He asked first. And… I owe him. He saved my life twice before we reached Vester."

The words cut, but they were fair.

Bright inhaled, steadying himself. "It's alright. Tyven is strong, so is Silas. You'll be good with them."

Bessia nodded gratefully as she left.

…

Later that day, as dusk stained the sky violet, a commotion erupted near the sparring pits. Bright pushed through the crowd just in time to see Mara—one of his favorites from his squad—sprawled on the ground after a match with one of Crownhold's goons.

She had lost the fight, but her spirit remained unbroken, not for a single second. Her ability shone best in a group, which put her at a disadvantage here, yet she had fought with everything she had. Every strike, every maneuver spoke of skill and determination—a performance that was nothing short of impressive.

This impressed bright as he stated. "She's ours."

Duncan nodded appreciatively.

Adam blinked. "Shouldn't we at least ask?"

Duncan stepped forward. "Mara! Join us!"

She looked at him… then past him… then at Bright.

She nodded slowly. "Alright . I'm in."

Silas pumped his fist.

Their squad now had:

Bright

Adam

Duncan

Baggen

Mara

…still one slot empty.

…

Bright stared at the registration slate.

He needed one more.

One more to make them eligible.

But every good soldier was already claimed.

Every promising fledgling had been taken by larger, richer, better-positioned squads.

He scanned the courtyard.

He saw:

veterans interviewing recruits,

Some finalizing lists,

merchants prepping betting slates,

nobles' servants carrying crates of prizes,

Silas sharpening his blade with irritated energy,

Adam helping Mara with some moves,

Baggen staring at a roasted turkey leg like it had personally offended him.

Everyone had somewhere to be.

Everyone had found a place.

Except Bright.

He exhaled slowly.

One slot.

One chance.

One person who wouldn't break under pressure.

And as the sun dipped behind the towers of Outpost Vester, casting the training ground into long shadows, Bright felt the pressure build behind his ribs like a dam ready to burst.

So he turned to his last resort: the arrogant Rolf, the final addition to their six-man squad.

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